


Beer is Not An Essential Survival Item

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl may regret picking up those cases of beer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beer is Not An Essential Survival Item

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest community, for the prompt 'beer'
> 
> When the gang leaves the CDC at the end of S1, Daryl is in his pickup. Next time we see them, something's happened to the pickup and Daryl's on Merle's bike. So this story assumes that there was a gap in there -- say, a few weeks -- between S1 and S2. Just go with me on this, mmmkay?
> 
> * * *

Daryl's eyes light up when they turn the corner.

"No," Glenn says immediately.

Daryl side-glances the kid before shifting into park. "Not everybody spends the night after a bender hangin' over the damn shitter," he says.

"It was the wine," Glenn mutters. "I'm not used to wine."

Daryl's got his own opinions about what wine does to the kid. Things like lower his inhibitions and send him loose-limbed and nervous to slump in the doorway of Daryl's room at the CDC, slurring about salvation and honesty and _arms_ until Daryl has no choice but to wrap his hand around the back of the kid's neck and tow him in. Things like making him extremely pliant and really fucking flexible. But he wisely keeps his mouth shut. He stares out the windshield instead, considering.

The Budweiser truck is spilled onto its side and blocking all four lanes. "Ain't no way to get past it," he muses. "Can't keep foraging now anyway."

"We're supposed to gather essential items only," Glenn reminds him.

"You always so damn obedient? We got enough soap," Daryl says brusquely, scooping up his crossbow and hopping down from the truck. He scans the area quickly before gesturing Glenn out of the vehicle. "Rules were made to be broken." 

"I thought you liked me obedient," Glenn murmurs.

Daryl falters, pictures Glenn spread out on the grass a mile from camp, three days ago. No sound but the wind in the far-off trees and the crickets singing and Glenn, biting his lip to keep from calling out, drawing a bead of blood from his lower lip as Daryl worked his fingers inside him. They were supposed to be hunting and they _had_ been, four squirrels and a rabbit tied up and then flung to the side when they came to the meadow and Glenn pointed out the clear sightline and looked at him and raised his eyebrows. Then he had the kid on his back on the ground, fast enough that Glenn let out an _oof_ of surprise and laughed against his mouth and then the laughter turns to gasps, to whispered words. 

Daryl blinks away the image, smirks at Glenn over his shoulder. "Come on, Jet Li." 

He hears Glenn sigh but the kid follows him, fanning out behind him with his machete at the ready. They've got it down to a science now, over the last few weeks of supply runs. Daryl taking the lead, Glenn at his back. Daryl's eyes dart over the blacktop as they circle the transport, but the area is deserted. Not a damn walker in sight.

Except for the driver.

The bite is small as bites go, just a nip to the driver's upper arm. Daryl remembers getting one just like it, the summer that Merle brought home some rangy dog and chained him up in the dirt yard. Some payment for a debt, supposed to be a hunting dog, except the thing did nothing but whine and shit. And when the damn mutt bit him, all he needed to do was slap on some iodine and hide the bite from Merle until it went away. 

Things are different now.

Daryl scratches his fingers through his beard, shifts a little when Glenn leans against his side. It's a bad habit Glenn's got, pushin' up against him when they're alone, blockin' his aim if one of the geeks happens to pop up out of the underbrush at the side of the road. Daryl knows he should push the kid away, give him hell, but instead he moves his bow to the other side, nudges Glenn back. Feels Glenn sigh. 

It's easier here, alone. Not that they made it a particular secret what's goin' on between them, but at the camp he's always thinking about how close he's standing, what part of Glenn he's touching. Alone, they can just _be_.

The driver snarls, reaches out a rotting hand through the shattered window, flails against the restraining seatbelt. 

Daryl reaches for the knife at his belt, but Glenn is already stepping forward, grip firm on the machete. 

"I got this," Glenn says.

* * *

Turns out Rick don't give a shit that they brought back four cases of beer, crowded into the back of the pickup amongst the toilet paper and the canned ham. Turns out Rick knows the value of lettin' loose when you've got an abandoned summer camp as a reasonably defensible temporary home base and a crew that's frayin' at the edges.

It also turns out that beer really does affect the kid differently than wine. The wine at the CDC had made him silent, morose… until he turned up on Daryl's doorstep, that is.

Turns out beer makes the kid talkative. And… handsy. 

Daryl twitches every time Glenn's hand drops onto his thigh, jerks whenever Glenn's fingers wrap around his bicep or tap him on the chest or, once, slide across his cheek and into his hairline. And he sure as fuck doesn't miss the amused glances being passed between everyone in the goddamned group. Even Dale, stationed on top of the RV and nursing the single beer that the watch crew is allowed for the night, manages to take time out from watching for geeks to smirk down at them. 

The ninth time that Glenn flailing hand brushes his chest, Daryl abruptly stands. "Gonna relieve Dale," he announces loudly.

"What?" Glenn asks. His hand reaches up quickly – kid is so damn fast, isn't alcohol supposed to slow the goddamn reflexes? – and snags at him, catching in the loose material of his jeans. "You have another hour."

He squints down at the kid. Glenn's face is always open, honest. Makes Daryl wonder how the hell he ever got by in the world before. Sure as hell doesn't make it any easier on him now.

He should brush the kid's hand away, dump his beer and climb onto the RV and not give a shit what anyone thinks. Not give a shit what Glenn thinks. But just like a lot of things when it comes to Glenn…

With a sigh and a determination not to look at anyone around the fire for the remainder of the night, Daryl sits back down.

Glenn smiles and immediately starts in on a story about delivering a pizza to some motorcycle club. His hand rests happily on Daryl's knee.

Daryl closes his eyes. Next time they go on a supply run, he's listening to the kid. Next time, it's essential items only.


End file.
